


God will do nothing to stop it

by MovesLikeBucky



Series: Origin of Love [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Coming Untouched, Contains SFW Art, Everything is shiny and new in Eden, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, It's About The Hands (tm), It's not described in detail but it very much does happen, Lots of kissing, M/M, Scene: Garden of Eden (Good Omens), Wing Grooming, and kissing, or at least they will be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25827973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: Gabriel had told him there would be ‘demons’ and his job would be to smite them.  That they would be horrid and putrid, vile and disgusting.  They would be abominations upon God’s Earth, and therefore must be destroyed on sight.  Crawly didn’t seem to be any of those things.If pressed, Aziraphale might admit he found him rather handsome, in a weird sort of way.The world is new, and so is he.  Sure, he’s been around for time innumerable (even if time didn’t exist until six days ago), but having a corporeal body, that’s new.  His wings are uncomfortable, the robes are scratchy, and he’s terrified for the two lone humans meant to bring life to this world.Next to him, the demon Crawly stands, watching the first of humanity make their way across the desert — flaming sword held aloft, granting them warmth from the storm.  He keeps glancing up at Aziraphale’s wing, scrunching his nose at it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Origin of Love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874023
Comments: 54
Kudos: 167
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations, Just Enough Of A Bastard to be Worth Knowing Biblically





	God will do nothing to stop it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Phoenix_of_Athena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_of_Athena/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY CATS!!!! <3 <3 
> 
> This is so ridiculously late but here it is! I really hope you like it! Cuz it is spawning an entire series!
> 
> This fic would not be nearly as good without the wonderful beta work done by [werebear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/werebear), there are parts of this that are beyond better than I had them thanks to her! 
> 
> We also have art in this fic by my amazing friend Claire aka [doorwaytoparadise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise) \- Check out their art on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/nothistoryart?s=20)!

On top of a wall, surrounding a garden, Aziraphale stands next to a demon. He’s perplexed, and more than a bit so. Demons should not offer reassurance, should not have points that make sense. Aziraphale is an instrument, meant to carry out God’s ineffable plan. He should not be swayed by things like logic; his purpose is encoded into the very fabric of him.

Gabriel had told him there would be ‘demons’ and his job would be to smite them. That they would be horrid and putrid, vile and disgusting. They would be abominations upon God’s Earth, and therefore must be destroyed on sight. Crawly didn’t seem to be any of those things. 

If pressed, Aziraphale might admit he found him rather handsome, in a weird sort of way.

The world is new, and so is he. Sure, he’s been around for time innumerable (even if time didn’t exist until six days ago), but having a corporeal body, that’s new. His wings are uncomfortable, the robes are scratchy, and he’s terrified for the two lone humans meant to bring life to this world.

Next to him, the demon Crawly stands, watching the first of humanity make their way across the desert — flaming sword held aloft, granting them warmth from the storm. He keeps glancing up at Aziraphale’s wing, scrunching his nose at it.

The rain stops and they both shake out their feathers.

“Well, that was quite a spectacle,” Aziraphale says, avoiding Crawly’s eyes. He’s not sure _why_ , exactly, but looking directly at Crawly’s yellow serpent’s eyes makes him feel… hmm… wobbly? Wiggly? Something, in any case, that he’s not used to.

“Water from the sky, what will they think of next.” Crawly smiles, a crooked half thing. Aziraphale feels the tips of his ears go warm. “So then, um…”

“Oh! Right, terribly rude of me. Aziraphale.” He says this with a rushed nod, something like fear in the pit of his stomach. He shouldn’t be giving his _name_ to demons. He shouldn’t be giving it to anyone, really.

Not that there’s much of anyone else to give it to, is there? This new world seems abruptly wide and empty. Which is not something an angel, even an angel alone and separated from the Host, should be troubled by, and so of course, he isn’t. Is he? 

“Right, Aziraphale, bit of a mouthful, but it’s nice.” Crawly says as he watches the two humans in the distance. “Where are you off to next, then?”

“Not sure. Probably following them, keeping them in Her good graces.”

“Thwarting wiles, I’d assume? Off to a great start so far.”

Aziraphale turns to argue, but there’s a smile plastered across Crawly’s face.

“It’s a joke, testing them out, seeing if they catch on.”

“Ah, I see,” Aziraphale says, although it’s lost on him. 

“You don’t, but that’s alright,” Crawly says, grimacing as he brushes a small and fluffy white feather off of his shoulder.

“What are you making that face for?”

“What face?”

“You’re pulling a face at me, have been since the rain started.”

“Have not! It’s just my face!”

“It’s your face but it’s all turned up and funny looking.”

“You’ve known me fifteen minutes and you know what my face looks like all the time? Been paying attention, hmm?”

“N- _No!_ ” Aziraphale says with offense, “I have no need to pay any heed to the visage of a _demon_.”

“Ah, stop it, angel, you’ll make me blush.” Crawly says this with a grin, mischievous and _debonair_ and Aziraphale isn’t sure where that word even came from but he knows the meaning plainly now.

Aziraphale isn’t sure about demons and blushing or what blushing even _is_ , but hearing the word ‘angel’ in that fond tone definitely causes some kind of reaction. His face feels hot and his heart rate is elevated. That’s a problem for later, and he makes a mental note to have his corporation checked for temperature regulation on his next visit upstairs.

Aziraphale stares out at the desert, determined to not let this demon get the better of him. He’s an angel, built to resist temptation in all forms. A few well-placed words and smiles are nothing at all. He is stalwart in his faith, unshakeable in his resolve. He is a _principality,_ for Heaven’s sake. He needs nothing but his faith in Her and his orders, wants for nothing more than that.

A few minutes pass between them in awkward silence. Aziraphale hopes the demon will leave, but he makes no move to do so. It’s annoying, frankly; the audacity of it. Crawly just stands there, shifting from one foot to the other, hands behind his back, looking frankly ridiculous. 1

“Really I must be—“

“So, just wondering—“

Their words step on each other and frankly it’s annoying. He shouldn’t feel apologetic or embarrassed around a demon, he reminds himself. As an _angel_ his word should take precedence over anything uttered by a being of darkness.

“Oh, after you,” he says before he can stop himself. Already tripping over the politeness he will become much more aware of as a character trait in the coming centuries.

“Ah, thanks,” Crawly says, running a hand through his crimson hair. It’s captivating in ways that Aziraphale doesn’t understand; the sunlight lighting through it, making it sparkle in a way. It’s beautiful. For a demon. “Was just wondering, did they do away with the stringent grooming codes upstairs?”

“Grooming codes?”

“Your _wings_ , angel, they’re awful,” Crawly sneers at him, a half-laugh about him. His eyes roam over Aziraphale’s wings in a way that, frankly, is entirely too self-indulgent. Entirely too _roguish_. 

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business, _demon_.”

“Crawly, if you don’t mind,” the demon corrects him again, with a smile and a wink. Awfully tempting, but Aziraphale will stand firm. 

“Either way, _Crawly_ , that’s no business of yours.”

“Back in my day, what I can remember of it,” Crawly continues, much to Aziraphale’s chagrin, “you’d get a disciplinary for being out of uniform like that; formal warning at the minimum. Used to get after me for stardust in my wings.”

“Stardust?”

“Yeah, used to be in the starmaker division. Always thought the dust looked cool. Wings have always been black, felt like wearing my work. The whole of the cosmos on my back, but,” he shrugs, “upper management didn’t see it that way.”

Aziraphale decidedly does _not_ think about soft black wings shimmering with stardust in the light of the newly formed sun. He doesn’t think of when he used to watch the starmakers, how they would spin the raw elements of the newly-formed universe in the palms of their hands. Colliding and exploding into something new and bright and colorful. Intricate and delicate work that required softness and precision. 

He’s not sure why his brow is suddenly sweaty. He makes a note of that for the corporations department as well.

This is ridiculous, why is he still here. Surely there must be things to do before he can leave the garden, other things more suited to his time.

“Well, for whatever reason, I suppose they’ve gone a bit lax on those restrictions. Couldn’t tell you why, perhaps I’ll ask Gabriel next time I’m around.”

Crawly sneers and scoffs at that, muttering something under his breath that sounds like ‘pompous asshole’. Aziraphale rolls his eyes and tries his best not to mentally agree.

“Either way, lovely talking to you,” Aziraphale says with a wince. It should not be lovely talking to demons. He flaps his wings a few times, stretching them out so he can take flight. Turning back to the garden, he looks over his shoulder at Crawly, “But I must be going. Do mind how you go.”

Aziraphale takes flight from the wall and flitters his way back into the garden proper. Landing just by what will later be known as ‘rosebushes’, he feels the cool grass between his toes. He wonders, vaguely, how the sand will feel outside of these walls. Different, surely. It doesn’t look nearly as comfortable. Looks rather coarse and rough, and from the wind kicking it up it sure seems to dissipate pretty much everywhere. 

He starts making his circuit, past the rhododendrons and the berry bushes. Past the cherry trees and the palms, working his way inward, looking for things to do. He hears a flutter of feathers behind him and rolls his eyes.

“What do you _want_ , Crawly? I can smell the sulfur on you from here.” Aziraphale can’t, actually, smell sulfur. He’d been told that demons would carry the scent around, the brimstone of the fires they were burned in, but Crawly smells more like cinnamon. Or smoke, maybe. Not appalling in the least. Or appealing, for that matter. Perfectly neutral.

“Why would you think I might want something?” Crawly says, wincing as he pricks his thumb on a thistle. Aziraphale pointedly ignores Crawly touching his tongue to the wound to stop the bleeding. Ignores that the tongue is forked like a snake’s. Ignores the weird fluttery feeling that gives him.

“You _are_ following me.” Aziraphale quickens his pace, letting his feet fall more surely. Squaring his shoulders and trying to project an air of power, remind this demon of his place with nothing but body language. He is an _angel,_ after all. Righteousness is his purview. He steadies himself and takes a deep breath—

“Not many places to go, it’s a flowerbed in a box.”

—and sighs heavily and hunches forward. Clearly, Crawly doesn’t intend to leave him alone any time soon. Best to just ignore him and eventually he’ll go away. 

They make their way through the garden, Aziraphale keeping his hands clasped in front of himself, merely observing. Crawly, on the other hand, seems determined to get into trouble. 

Crawly stops near the Venus fly traps, poking them and then pulling his finger away quickly, laughing each time a plant fails to catch him. An obvious ploy to get Aziraphale to trap _himself_ in one, no doubt so that the wily serpent can go and influence Adam and Eve to _further_ trouble. 

They pass some berry bushes and Crawly grabs a handful of them, bright blue and plump. He tosses them in the air, one by one, craning his head back to catch them. Exposing the long line of his neck. Aziraphale could smite him, in this vulnerable state. Instead he watches as Crawly deftly maneuvers himself under the thrown blueberries, catching at least three of them in his attempts. It is impressive, Aziraphale thinks; he is _completely_ unimpressed.

Aziraphale feels a twinge of…something; in his right wing. Not painful, just an inkling of _something_. A discomfort, maybe. A tickle, perhaps. Right along his scapulars. He wriggles his spine, finds it abated for a moment.

Crawly follows behind him, much like a thorn in his side, asking question after question.

“Who d’you think decided on the colors? Blue and green? Seems a bit arbitrary, could’ve gone with a nice red or orange for the grass. Imagine — orange under your feet!”

Aziraphale ignores him, the slight twinge becoming more of an incessant pinching as he fluffs his wings out while he walks.

“And the blue is nice, for a sky color. But why does it cycle through all weird? Blue then orange then purple then dark blue then purple then orange and back to blue again. It’s a bit much if you ask me.”

Aziraphale decidedly does not point out that he did not, in fact, ask Crawly any of these things. He silently keeps his head held aloft, sticking to the high road as he has been taught. Despite the discomfort; which has become nearly unbearable right down to the base of his feathers, right along his back.

“What d’you think they’re putting in these things, eh?” Crawly asks, gesturing to a tall palm tree and the yellow fruit that hangs there in bunches. “Weird yellow tubes. Bananas, Adam named them, innit? What goes in a banana?”

“I don’t know, Crawly, maybe eat one and see if you can figure it out,” he snaps unintentionally. For the first time in what feels like hours, Crawly shuts up. Aziraphale should feel relieved, but seeing Crawly clam up and shut in on himself tugs at his heart just a bit. He was only asking questions, after all. 

“I do apologize, dear boy,” Aziraphale dithers and fidgets with his ring, “I’ve just become a bit irritable and I should not have taken that out on you.”

“S’fine, don’t gotta apologize to me,” Crawly says, digging into the soil with his toes, looking down at it like it’s the most interesting thin he’s seen. “I’m a demon after all.”

“Well, be that as it may, you are still deserving of kind— oh, for _Heaven’s_ sake!” 

Aziraphale groans, reaching behind him, trying in vain to reach the base of his wings. It feels like something crawling under his skin, through his feathers and down to the very tips of his wings. 

“Itchy?”

“What?”

“S’what it’s called. S’what I’m calling it anyway. Physical bodies… uh… something different about them, not like the celestial ones. React to things, s’why you get hungry.”

“I do _not_ sully the temple of my celestial body with gross matter.” Aziraphale says, parroting back the party line even as he feels his stomach grumble.

“Don’t lie to me, angel, I saw _you_ with the pomegranates.” Crawly says in a singsong voice as he waggles a finger in Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale feels the tips of his ears go red. He had been a bit overzealous with the pomegranates. Isn’t _his_ fault they’re delicious.

“Could sort them out for you, if you wanted,” Crawly says, almost under his breath. Like he’s afraid to offer. Bit of an odd way to try a temptation, but Aziraphale is prepared for anything.

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” Aziraphale says as he continues walking away, trying to keep some air of authority to his steps. “I’m perfectly capable of doing it on my own.”

“Easier with someone else tho, innit?” Crawly asks, keeping pace with him effortlessly. Aziraphale isn’t sure how, since he walks like hips are more of a suggestion. Something about it makes his blood run hot, but pleasantly so. 2

“Yes, but you’re a _demon_.” Aziraphale turns on his heel and spits back at him. Surely Crawly remembers, or maybe he doesn’t. The grooming of wings is an intimate gesture, one done only by someone trusted above all else.

“I’m just saying they’re in a right state,” Crawly says, circling him. “Can’t be comfortable like that.” He reaches out a hand and strokes down one of Aziraphale’s long primary feathers. 

Aziraphale jumps back and yelps, a shiver running down his spine. It’s like a jolt of electricity, straight to the core of him. Something that thrills him and confounds him in equal measure.

“Ah, sorry angel, I didn’t—“ 

“Do that again,” Aziraphale says before he can stop himself. Crawly raises an eyebrow as Aziraphale clamps his hands over his own mouth, heat rising in his face.

He half expects a witty retort. A jab at his unkempt wings again or some salacious comment. Instead, what he doesn’t expect — could never possibly expect, not from a demon — happens.

“Are you sure?”

It’s a simple question. Three words, ten letters. Nothing to write home about, one would think. But the decision has been shifted. It’s been put in his hands, in _Aziraphale’s_ hands, for the first time in… well, he isn’t sure how long it’s been. Maybe never. Everything is orders and ineffable plans and duty and honor and all that comes with that. 

But Crawly is standing in front of him, searching his face, not making a move. Crawly’s hands are practically glued to his sides; he’s holding his breath and waiting. Not towering over him, not demanding. Crawly actually looks rather small right now, like he’s waiting for rejection. Aziraphale watches him shift from one foot to the other nervously and wonders: just when was the last time Crawly has known acceptance.

And it _had_ felt nice, was the thing. And his wings _are_ indeed disheveled. And the itching — he squirms, shifts his spine a bit — Heavens above, the itching is too much.

“Well, they _are_ quite a bit out of decorum.”

“Regular disaster if you ask me,” Crawly says softly, breathing finally.

“Heaven couldn’t _truly_ object, if I were just letting you sort them out.”

“Rather necessary with the itching, hard to get to on your own.” Crawly takes a tentative step closer.

“And everyone is so busy right now, what with the humans and the apple thing.” Aziraphale casts his eyes upward momentarily, and then steps closer. “I doubt they’ll have time upstairs for a while.”

“Could spin it as you tricking me, if you wanted.”

“How do you mean?” Aziraphale asks. They’re mere inches away from each other now, closer than they were on the wall. Close enough Aziraphale can see the flecks of gold in Crawly’s yellow eyes, a small surviving mark that they were the same once, a long time ago. He wonders briefly if they knew each other, but something tells him he’d never forget if he did.

“Tricking a demon into serving an angel? Demons don’t serve angels.” Crawly’s voice is quiet and small, barely a breath. If they weren’t almost chest to chest Aziraphale might not have been able to hear him. 

“Alright then, if you wouldn’t mind,” Aziraphale says, swallowing thickly and wondering just when his mouth had gotten so dry. “I do think I might need some assistance.”

Crawly nods, reaching up towards the arch of Aziraphale’s wing, hand shaking like a leaf in the breeze. Looking back, Aziraphale won’t ever truly be able to say what possessed him in that moment. Whether it was the shaking hand, the nervous expression, the fear in the golden amber eyes.

Aziraphale reaches up, takes Crawly’s trembling hand in both of his. Holds it like a precious and breakable thing, mimicking the comfort he had sometimes seen between Adam and Eve. He caresses Crawly’s hand between his, marvels at just how cold Crawly’s thin fingers are. How well they fit here, held in his own stockier grip.

His fingers trace the delicate bones of Crawly’s hands, marveling just a bit at the beauty of them. The skin is smooth and soft against the pads of his fingers, a contrast to his battle-worn callouses. It confuses him just a bit, this softness. Crawly is a demon, demons shouldn’t be soft. Shouldn’t be kind. Shouldn’t be radiant and beautiful.

“Aziraphale?” Crawly’s eyes no longer hold fear but they do hold questions. Questions that Aziraphale does not have answers for. He only has instinct driving him forward, only curiosity. He wonders for just a moment…what might happen…

Aziraphale brings Crawly’s hand closer, kissing the tip of each finger. Kissing always seemed to comfort Eve when it was Adam doing it. Seemed to calm her down, make her smile. Crawly’s breath hitches and he seizes up, and all at once Aziraphale is afraid he’s overstepped.

“Oh, goodness,” he says as he drops Crawly’s hand, “Dreadfully sorry, not sure what came over me there.”

“No, no, it’s alright just… wasn’t expecting that,” Crawly says, reaching for Aziraphale’s hand. “Felt kind of nice, actually.”

“Did it? I wouldn’t know, I’d see the humans doing it and…well…I’m not at all sure why I thought…” Crawly takes his hand, repeating the motions Aziraphale had made earlier. Cradling it like something precious, tracing along the edges. Aziraphale can feel his pulse quicken, can feel something fluttery in his chest. It’s enjoyable, these soft and gentle touches. Far different from the cold and clinical ones of Heaven.

Aziraphale’s heart jumps into his throat as Crawly kisses the tips of his fingers. Each press of lips causes his toes to curl into the grass; sets off a tingle that runs the length of his spine and makes him shiver; makes him close his eyes.

“That is quite nice,” he sighs out into their shared airspace. When he opens his eyes, Crawly is standing even closer than before. He’s still holding Aziraphale’s hand in his, still exploring his palms and his wrist, still charting the valleys between his splayed fingers.

Crawly’s eyes are focused on his hand, so Aziraphale is free to focus on Crawly. On the look of wonder and fascination on his features. On the inquisitiveness in the crook of his brow and the quiet smile that tugs at his lips. 

“Did you still want me to…” Crawly asks, trailing off as he looks up at Aziraphale’s face.

“Oh!” Aziraphale feels the heat return to his cheeks again and it really is becoming a bit of a nuisance, but not nearly as much as the incessant itching. He’d been so caught up in the last several minutes he’d forgotten all about it. “Would be ever so kind of you.” His words still come out in whispers, afraid to break this bubble of… well… whatever it is. It feels forbidden and a little bit wrong, being this close to Crawly. But it feels right, too.

“Not kind, I’m a demon,” Crawly says as he motions for Aziraphale to turn around. There’s no bite to it, just a matter of fact statement. Aziraphale turns and stretches his wings, flutters them just a bit to shake them out.

“Crawly… do be gentle, please?” Aziraphale hears a soft scoff behind him as two shaky hands alight on his shoulders.

“Of course, angel, I know what I’m doing.” Crawly’s voice has a bit of a crack to it, a curious thing. “This’ll be easier if you sit down.”

Aziraphale does just that, settling himself on the ground, legs crossed and back straight. The grass is cool, still wet from the earlier rainfall. He lets his wings stretch out on either side of him, tapering down to lie on the grass as well.

Crawly settles himself behind him, legs stretched out on either side, bracketing him in. Aziraphale forgets to breathe for just a moment, with Crawly this close. He’s practically in the demon’s lap now, and he isn’t quite sure that’s proper.

“Is this alright?” Crawly asks, a stutter to his voice. “Sitting like this, I mean, it’s a bit… close quarters. I can shift if you need or we can find a different—“

“No, no,” Aziraphale says, settling between Crawly’s legs. “Easiest this way, I think.”

“Right, makes sense.” There’s more than a little apprehension in Crawly’s voice, so different from his confidence earlier. But maybe it hadn’t been confidence, really. Maybe Aziraphale had read it all wrong. Maybe the acting out, the jokes and the jabs and the pestering, had been something else. Maybe, underneath all of that, Crawly was just lonely.

The cold realization washes over Aziraphale: he’s been quite lonely too.

“I’m gonna touch your wings now, ok?” Crawly asks, voice soft and delicate, like he’s afraid Aziraphale is going to bolt off any second now.

“Ok, I think I’m ready.” Aziraphale steadies himself, ready for the shock of sensation to hit him again once Crawly’s fingers make contact with his feathers. Crawly is gentle as he touches the bend of Aziraphale’s wings, right where they crest. A soft press of hands that sends a shiver down Aziraphale’s spine nonetheless.

There’s something electric in the soft and slow way Crawly’s fingers thread through the primaries on his right wing, separating them out and straightening them. As he discards the broken ones and massages the skin there. Something that pools in the pit of his stomach, makes his skin start to sweat. It’s a building thing, a need. He’s never been touched like this, gently and with good intention. Even with the few angels he trusted in Heaven, it was always a means to an end. A favor that had to be done. 

Crawly works his way in to the secondaries at the bottom edge of the same wing, hitting a spot just right with his nails. Aziraphale moans out, unable to stop the sound if he’d tried. Crawly’s movement stalls and that just won’t do.

“No, keep going,” Aziraphale gasps out, breath heavy and labored. He thinks he might be doing that whole ‘breathing’ thing wrong but it’s hard to focus on anything but the drag of Crawly’s nails and this building pleasure in his chest. The way it clouds his vision, makes him crave more.

Crawly obliges him, making his way up into the secondary coverts with an agonizing slowness. It’s not a painful agony, though. It’s a waiting kind, an anticipation kind. Crawly’s fingers are gentle as they trace the outline of the feathers, but sure and steady as they knead into his flesh, massaging out the kinks and pains.

Aziraphale closes his eyes, loses himself in the sensation. Lets himself coast on it. It feels much like flying, he thinks. The swooping sensation in his stomach, the breathlessness.

“Almost done with this one, angel, should be feeling much better by now.” There’s a breathiness in Crawly’s words, a shake in his voice. Something like enjoyment? He opens his eyes, wills his vision to be less hazy. Crawly’s legs are pushed up closer to him, his toes are curling and digging into the earth. But why? Aziraphale needs to know.

He turns suddenly in Crawly’s lap, causing Crawly to grip down on his feathers far harder than he surely intended. A keening and wanting noise escapes Aziraphale’s throat; that should be painful, and it is, but in a delicious way that makes his head spin. He realizes with a very sudden clarity that Crawly could put those hands anywhere on his body and he would relish the contact.

“I’m sorry, shouldn’t have done that,” Crawly stammers out, face red as the apples on the tree above them. His eyes are wide and he’s trembling.

“Actually, I think I rather liked it. It was… oddly pleasurable,” Aziraphale says with what he hopes is a comforting smile. The redness creeps further down Crawly’s neck, down under his robes. Aziraphale wonders how far that flush goes, how Crawly looks underneath those robes. He can feel the solidity of his chest against his back, the outline of lean muscle. Can imagine the pale skin, alabaster, like that of his arms and legs. These are not thoughts that angels should entertain, but Aziraphale can’t seem to bring himself to care.

“Would you,” Crawly starts, before swallowing and licking his lips, “would you like me to do it again?”

“Do you want to?” Aziraphale asks, eyes fluttering shut as Crawly drags his hand slowly and gently through his feathers, stroking them like a precious thing.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

The words rattle in Aziraphale’s brain, rewriting more of his expectations. Demons are supposed to want to hurt, to _thrive_ on it. He shouldn’t trust Crawly in this, but he finds he does. There’s an earnestness in Crawly’s words, in his disposition. A shared desire there, for companionship and warmth. It’s palpable to an angel, a being meant to sense these types of things. He’s moving before he can stop himself.

He cups Crawly’s cheek, stroking his thumb over a sharp cheekbone, marveling at the delicateness of Crawly’s features. “Is this alright, Crawly?”

“Y-yes.” Crawly closes his eyes and leans into Aziraphale’s touch, one hand coming up to cover Aziraphale’s, long fingers finding their places between his own sturdy ones. Something about it tugs at the angel’s heartstrings. His mouth is suddenly dry and tacky, his heart is in his throat. He doesn’t have a name for this feeling, but he thinks he might die if he doesn’t act on it. 3

“Crawly…” Aziraphale leans in closer, close enough that their breath mingles, “I should very much like to kiss you.”

Crawly’s eyes shoot open and wide, searching Aziraphale’s, looking for the trick. “Y-you want to kiss me?”

“Yes, if you’d like.” The angle is weird, turned around as he is. One hand braced in the grass, the other on Crawly’s face.

Crawly makes a series of noises that Aziraphale can’t parse, but his thumb strokes small circles on the back of Aziraphale’s hand and Aziraphale’s heart _aches_ with it. Finally, after what feels like eons, Crawly nods at him, leaning infinitesimally closer.

Aziraphale smiles at him and closes the distance, pressing his lips to Crawly’s. His lips are soft, if a tiny bit chapped, but it feels nice. It feels… comforting is the word, Aziraphale thinks. He knows now why Adam and Eve did it so often. The feeling of connection through touch with another being is a wonderful one. It’s so nice he can’t help but smile when Crawly kisses him again after they break.

Crawly’s hand drifts from Aziraphale’s, down along Aziraphale’s arm and down his side to rest on his hip. Crawly grips him there, not tightly and not enough to hurt, but just enough to keep Aziraphale from pulling away. Aziraphale buries his hand in Crawly’s copper hair and kisses him more intently.

It seems to stir something in the demon, as Crawly’s forked tongue darts along the seam of Aziraphale’s lips. Aziraphale had seen the humans, of course. Knew there was something about deeper kisses that he didn’t understand. He grips the back of Crawly’s head firmly, tilting him just a little to slot their lips together better; opens his mouth for the demon and is delighted when he feels that forked tongue snake in alongside his own. He gives back in kind, tasting the hint of blueberry still there on Crawly’s tongue. Crawly grips his hip a bit tighter, possessively, like he’s something to be held.

It turns out there’s a lot of pleasure to be had in kissing, in the push and pull of it. The give and take. It was nice, if a bit messy, and definitely overwhelming. When they break, Aziraphale takes in Crawly’s face, lips kissed red, hair a mess. He’s sure he must also look a state. There’s something new in Crawly’s eyes, something dark and wanting. 

Crawly leans in again, wrapping his arm around Aziraphale tighter. The kisses start to roam, to the corner of Aziraphale’s lips, to his cheek, his jaw. “Angel…” Crawly sighs into the soft skin of Aziraphale’s neck. It reverberates through the muscle there, the low growl of it. It’s a sensation like nothing Aziraphale has felt before: there’s affection there, carried through the muscle and tendons of his neck from Crawly’s voice. Aziraphale wants Crawly to feel it, too.

He tugs on the demon’s hair, bringing his attention back, kissing him soundly again. Aziraphale repeats Crawly’s journey, kissing down his sharp jaw to the hollow of his throat. “Does this feel alright, Crawly?” he asks against the demon’s skin, marveling at the shuddering shiver that rolls through Crawly’s corporation.

“Fucking hell,” Crawly gasps out as Aziraphale’s hands find the small of his back and pull him close. “These bodies… sure do feel a lot of things…”

“They do,” Aziraphale says, nuzzling his nose under Crawly’s jaw, noting the tremble that’s taking hold of him, “But we can stop if you like. I still have a whole wing that’s out of sorts.” Aziraphale punctuates this by flapping his left wing out, a cool gust of a breeze washing over the two of them.

“Ngk, well, yes, promises and all that, I suppose,” Crawly says, still shaking. “There’s one problem though.”

“What?”

“I don’t really want to stop kissing you.”

Aziraphale sucks a breath in sharply. He doesn’t want Crawly to stop kissing him either, nor does he want to stop kissing Crawly. He’s never had these urges before, never wanted to be this close to another individual. Something about Crawly feels safe in a way that it shouldn’t, in a way that should be wrong. But if it _is_ wrong, Aziraphale reasons, She wouldn’t have seen in Her infinite wisdom to let it feel so right in the first place.

Aziraphale does the only thing he can think of, the only thing that makes sense. He leans in and kisses Crawly again.

“Then don’t stop,” he whispers against Crawly’s lips.

Crawly whines low in his throat, holding on to Aziraphale tight, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m incredibly sure,” Aziraphale says, matter of fact as anything. There is, however, the still pressing issue. He turns and settles back down between Crawly’s legs, spreading his wings wide. “I do believe though, that you weren’t finished.”

He looks over his shoulder and has to suppress a laugh. Crawly looks indignant and absolutely gobsmacked. 

“You’ve got a bastard streak then, huh, angel?” he asks, smirk spreading across his face. “It’s refreshing, don’t see many angels with a sense of humor.”

Aziraphale huffs and wiggles impatiently, “Well, go on then. You were doing an excellent job before, I’d hate for you to leave it half finished.” He feels Crawly lean in, rest his forehead on the nape of his neck.

“Definitely a bastard streak.” Crawly drags his nose along Aziraphale’s spine, nuzzling into his hair and humming happily. Aziraphale wants to get used to that sound, it’s practically heavenly. “Ready for me to start again, angel?”

Aziraphale shifts from side to side, making himself comfortable, “Yes, please, I’m ready.”

Crawly starts gently again, same as before, but his touch is more sure, more solid. There’s a confidence there now, a determination. There’s Crawly’s lips on the back of his neck. His teeth on the lobe of his ear, just a little too pointy to be standard issue. There’s the press of his chest to Aziraphale’s back, like he can’t get close enough.

And there’s the feeling, in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach, pooling there once again. Making him jerk and stammer. Making him say Crawly’s name over and over again, falling from his lips in lieu of anything else. His hands, formerly folded in his lap, prim and proper, dart out to rest on Crawly’s thighs. To feel the strong muscle there, to feel his pulse.

Aziraphale’s back arches unbidden, the feel of long and cold fingers between his coverts, caressing the sensitive skin there. He moans aloud, no one here to hear him, Crawly’s mouth pressed to the back of his neck. 

“M…More… please,” Aziraphale practically begs as Crawly works his way inwards, to the point where his wings meet his back. It’s everything and it’s all encompassing; his breath is heavy and his nails dig into Crawly’s thighs, earning him a bite to the back of his neck.

“Whatever you want, angel, anything, I’ll give you all of it, Satan’s sake you’re beautiful.”

Aziraphale has never been called ‘beautiful’. He’s never been called anything even close. It’s too much, the touch and sensation, the feel of Crawly’s hands. He’s chasing after something, as he ruts against nothing, an animalistic instinct that he’s never known before.

“Are you alright?” Crawly asks against his skin as he finally, _finally,_ makes contact with the delicate scapulars on Aziraphale’s back.

“Yes—oh!” Aziraphale cries out as his hips buck upwards — to what end he doesn’t know, but he knows this feels good. He knows he wants more of it, knows he wants more of it with Crawly.

He closes his eyes, leans back into Crawly’s touch. The tips of his wings shake as he writhes in Crawly’s lap. He’s chasing something, he doesn’t know what it is, but he feels it getting closer. It’s like taking flight, like the first good crosswind under his wings once he breaks the Earth’s atmosphere. 

Aziraphale shudders and cries out as Crawly scrapes his nails through his scapulars, and he lets go. Feels the pleasure crest over him as he shudders apart in Crawly’s arms.

A thin forked tongue darts against the back of his neck as he shivers. Crawly keeps his arms wrapped tight around him as he comes down, and Aziraphale relishes the contact. 

“Are you alright? What happened?”

“I’m not sure, but it felt incredible,” Aziraphale says with a laugh, feeling very much like he’s soaring. It’s a dizzying high, if a bit of a messy one. He lets his head fall backwards onto Crawly’s shoulder, amazed at the capabilities of these human forms.

Nothing like this ever happened in Heaven, no one touched each other like this. It was all rather clinical, even if he doesn’t know what that word means yet. It feels fitting though.

Crawly presses his lips to Aziraphale’s cheek, a similar act to before, but soft. It makes something inside Aziraphale’s chest ache just a bit. He wriggles, trying to press himself closer to Crawly, wanting to be closer, wanting this contact. Crawly obliges, lying back into the grass under the apple tree, pulling Aziraphale with him.

These human corporations come with instincts, even if they should be locked up deep inside. They want to touch and to be touched, to be close and to be cared for. Here lying in the grass, watching the clouds roll by as Crawly snuggles up close to him, is shaping up to be better than anything Heaven could offer.

And he wants. He’s not sure why. Being an angel, he’s never wanted anything. God’s love is the only thing he’s ever needed. But as they lie there, legs entwined, one of Crawly’s hands stroking lazily through Aziraphale’s feathers, he begins to think there might be more to life than that.

“Aziraphale?” Crawly’s hand moves to twirl in one of Aziraphale’s curls instead and the angel honestly wants to purr about it.

“Yes, Crawly?” 

“What… what happens now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well… I’m supposed to hate you, but you were nice to me. No one’s ever been nice to me before. And I really like kissing you, which is surprising. And I know the party lines. Angel, demon, hereditary enemies they say…” 

Crawly sits up, pulls at the grass a bit before wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his head on his knees. He looks sad, and Aziraphale wants to kiss him again until he isn’t sad anymore.

Aziraphale props himself up on his elbows. “What is it, Crawly? Did I do something wrong?”

“No! No, you haven’t… it’s just…” Crawly stares off in the direction of the Eastern gate, in the direction of humanity. They’ll both have to leave the garden soon, and they know it. “Aziraphale, I don’t want to have to hate you.”

There’s a crack in Crawly’s voice and a crack in Aziraphale’s heart. Aziraphale scrambles to his knees, eye level with Crawly once again. He takes his face in his hands, wipes away the few tears that have escaped and tracked down his cheeks.

“I don’t think you have to, Crawly,” Aziraphale says with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “I certainly will never be able to hate you.” He wraps his arms around Crawly, pulling him close, holding him tight. He cards a hand through Crawly’s hair as he puzzles things together.

“Your job, ostensibly, is to tempt the humans to sin, yes?” Crawly nods, so Aziraphale continues. “And my job is to instill virtue in humanity, keep them _away_ from sin.”

“Opposite jobs, opposite sides.”

“Yes, but I think there’s a way this can work to our advantage.” Aziraphale says, furrowing his brow. “If Heaven _thought_ I was trying to lead a demon back to the light, they couldn’t object.”

“True divine work, that is,” Crawly says, looking up at him with a spark of understanding in his eyes. “And if I were trying to tempt an angel to sin, Downstairs would probably encourage it.”

“Could be a real feather in your wing, _foul fiend_ ,” Aziraphale says as he nuzzles Crawly’s nose with his own. This affection thing could become a bit of an addiction if he isn’t careful, but right now he can’t bring himself to care. 

“And I get to keep kissing you?”

“When our paths cross, I don’t see why not. It is rather fun, isn’t it?”

“I like it. I like _you_ , you’re soft.” Crawly says as he snuggles further into Aziraphale’s chest.

Aziraphale doesn't know what Hell is like, but he knows what he's been told. The sharp edges and the torture of it. He makes a vow to himself, right then and there, that he'll always be a soft place for Crawly to land.

They stay there, Aziraphale’s back pressed into the tree bark and Crawly in his arms, until the sun starts to set beyond the horizon. They munch on apples lazily, doze off a few times, but unfortunately all good things must end eventually.

In the fading twilight, they say their goodbyes. They kiss a few more times, murmur promises to each other, to meet again someday, to see where this road will take them. Crawly is loath to let go of Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale is reluctant to let him. He settles for one last kiss before turning and taking flight. As Aziraphale flies along the horizon, Crawly an increasingly small speck behind him, he has the distinct feeling that things are falling into place. An ineffable plan of his own devising.

He knows that, no matter where the road takes him, he will meet Crawly again. The question is not about ‘if’, but only a matter of ‘when’.

1 \- Insofar as Aziraphale can tell; he’s not looking at him. Definitely not looking at him. Nope. Not at all. Maybe a bit in the periphery, but definitely not darting his eyes and stealing glances. That would be _decidedly_ unangelic of him. Completely uncalled for,

2 \- In later years Aziraphale will liken this sensation to a warm cup of tea, or a hot bath. He’ll have a lot more practice with it by then.

3 \- Love, as an angel knows it, is a general good will for all things living, great and small. This is a decidedly different kind of love. An all encompassing love and want for one sole other being. The Greeks would define love best, in many shapes and forms. Aziraphale would delight in this knowledge when the time came, sharing it gladly with Crawly as they navigate several of those types of love together.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part one of a series I intend to write, going through the cold open (and potentially through the series ending) as though they never hid, as though they started out like this - being comfortable and confident with each other, courting their way through the ages and nurturing that bond of love rather than denying it. If that sounds like your thing, stay tuned! Mesopotamia is next!


End file.
